Project Dystopia: Thirteen Futures
by doofusface
Summary: "Earth was more than flipped and reformed. It was defunct." (Violence. For Kate.)
1. Prologue

**2025**

* * *

_"Nightwing here, the trainees are doing well. I think we have a shot at this."_

_"Hey, it's Miss Martian. Things here are... getting better. I hope."_

_"It's Ki- Flash. Static and Ed are helping with the rescues in Gotham. Requesting back up if available."_

_"Superboy. Back up needed, ASAP. The place is crawling with kryptonite, I don't know if I'll be useful for much longer."_

_"Oracle, it's Zatanna. We're trying, but... I can't say it looks good."_

_"Blue Beetle; Khaji calculated what you asked. I'd rather not say, hermana."_

_"Hi, it's Sam. We... we need help."_

_"Red Robin. Batgirl's getting worse, Oracle."_

_"Aqualad, reporting in. Ocean Master is gaining manpower quickly. We are under immediate threat of invasion."_

* * *

The nightmares returned. Day after day. Night after night. Consciousness was no escape; the Warworld guaranteed that. Insomnia was their greatest friend, their fiercest foe. The world was a garbled death-drawn symphony, played by Destruction and mastered by Death. Blood. Ruins. Revolutions. Discreet wailing heard nowhere by everyone. Internal battles fighting an external war.

Earth was more than flipped and reformed. It was defunct.

Metropolis. Central. Gotham. Keystone. Bludhaven. Star. Poseidonis. Safe havens, in the beginning, before the fighting started. Before the blood bath, the purgings. Before the cracks in the ground became cracks in their hearts. Before the fall of the Knights and Kings. Before their failsafe became their reality.

The day the Warworld returned, they had been optimistic. Infiltrate, deactive. A repeat event. They had done it before. The tone of the threats should have discouraged them from trying. The Justice League was unfazed. The alarms rang. Fighting. Ringing. Blood, exhaustion. Ringing. Cut cowls. Ringing. Ripped hoods. Ringing. Incapacitated heroes. Ringing.

_War._

* * *

Villains and tyrants declared their alliance. The earth shook. Kryptonite distributed to every major city. Mass amounts of bombs and flame-producing weapons were shipped to every corner of the globe. Luthor controlled the media. Savage dictated everything else. Klarion was given designated areas for his own amusement. No one in them would be seen again.

For the heroes, secret identities became their only identities. They headed the rebellion; under threat from the Warworld, politics didn't matter. The global leaders stepped down. The citizens with hope left over needed leaders, and, more importantly, trainers. Nightwing led the collection. The Team covered the rescues and smuggling of helpless civilians to Keystone and Central. Metropolis and Star City were at an impasse; the heroes carrything the shields and bows had yet to be overrun. Gotham and Bludhaven were cleared, then abandoned. There was a lone cry that day. A girl pleading with her father.

* * *

**A/N:** Kate, this is allll your fault.


	2. Dystopia

Poseidonis was the first to fall.

The sound echoed in ripples and surges of the ocean. They came in the night. Ocean-Master found no need to hide his identity after the alliances went public. The Prince would be King. Orm's patience was... destructive.

The purists no longer covered their face.

"Tonight, we will _rule_ Atlantis! _Tonight_, we reclaim what rightfully belongs to _us_!"

Their leader, their _King _led them into a frenzy of revenge and slaughter. Shredded fins dusted the ocean floor. Bodies hovered in the currents. The remaining _impure _Conservatory students and instructors were disposed of.

King Sha'ark, harpooned. Repeatedly. He had thrashed when the nets came. His last words defied Orm and his crown; his last memory was a metal rod. Wyynde felt no shame in battering the dead carcass further. Smash. Crunch. Crack. A dismembered fin floated through the empty streets. His mace remained heavily stained for weeks after the attack. Chian looked on. She enjoyed the permanent expression of the king of Nanauve. Constricted pupils. Bared teeth. _Harmless._

Ronal, beside him, screamed of civil wars and false promises. Water-bearers fell to the ground. A gash in his stomach. A mace in his skull. Sixteen cheering purists as M'Chiste jammed a knife in the ex-purist's throat. Blood stained Sha'ark's garments as he fell on what remained of his old comrade.

Blubber huddled the younger students in a room. Lori attempted to shield them. A blast. Two. Three. Rubble fell and debris dispersed. She was struck by a column, bleeding out moments after freeing her upper half from the stone. He was gone with the first explosion; debris entered his system, shards flew through his skin. The children were a haze of red, one part theirs, two parts their instructors. Most died quickly, following the fragmented body of Blubber. The others were slaughtered by another set of purists, slash. Slash. _Slash._ One survivor made the mistake of screaming in pain (his tail was half of what it once was, shattered and pinned to the marble floors)- and that was that.

Topo. The palace doors were shut after he directed the Royals inside. La'gaan and Kaldur'ahm stayed, briefly, until he had forced them to follow their King._ This is my duty. Yours is a heavier burden, friends. _His own words echoed in his mind as the mocking soldiers approached.

"This is my duty."

Blue magic blended with the steady stream of purging instruments. A torrent of beams and bullets destroyed the outer gates. Spears, maces, and other things charged at him. A veil of blue light kept them at bay. Sixteen minutes. He grew physically exhausted. Too many enemies with too much power. His will died with the second wave of purists. Three tentacles remained of the guardian. Black eyes pierced and fastened to the archway he had been defending.

Inside, the Queen proceeded with the magical defenses. Kaldur and La'gaan stood guard. The King readied himself. The Prince stood by his nurse, La'gaan's mother, Cor'rel. The two apprentices to Orin looked at each other. A space between them was reserved for Garth. Kaldur closed his eyes. A solemn silence. La'gaan returned his focus to the room's only entrance. A tear formed.

The Tempest had patrolled the city's parameters with La'gaan and several Conservatory students the week before. A breach. Clashing metal. Blue and black and brown. A yell, a name. Another victim. Another hero to the rescue. Another body to bury, to mourn.

The party was three Atlanteans short at their return.

The doors dropped. Brown-clad guerillas entered the room. King Orin charged. Kaldur and La'gaan followed. Queen Mera summoned her powerful creatures; their limbs darted back and forth, thwarting the closest of the attackers. Arthur and Cor'rel stood beside her, fending off anyone who came too close. The room shone a bright blue. Then, red. Torn purist garments mixed with bits of skin and fins. Quick dodges, low lunges. A heavy brush painted the water a darker shade of blood.

Orm entered. He eyed his half-brother. Pleading eyes stared. Cold eyes dismissed. He lingered atop the room, a steady stream of purists entering and fighting under him. A crown was passed with the shift of the fight. _King _Orm ordered the six to be lined up by rank.

Hair the color of his heart. His soul. Cor'rel was the first to go. The young prince yelled, forced to watch. La'gaan roared. The invaders brought her to the center of the room. A dull, stone sword was brought forth. La'gaan screamed in protest. A downward thrust. The sword twisted in her chest, far enough to miss her heart. Near enough to pull the stone instrument upwards. The mother and son connected gazes. Half a second. A silent farewell. Pieces of the organ drifted upward. La'gaan became still. He remembered his father- the spear, the blood, the _quiet._ He was alone now. And he was next.

Condescending laughter as his ankle pouch was removed. Scarred letters made with a jagged blade in times past. _MIΓAΣ__. _The mark of the impure. A brand. La'gaan looked ahead, focused on the view of Atlantis. Kaldur gave him a brave face. La'gaan yelled a chant in dedication to Orin. His sight did not waver, his voice did not quake.

"HAIL, KING ORIN OF POSEIDONIS! HAIL, OUR MIGHTY KING! HAIL, HAIL!"

He repeats it. Again. Once more. It pulsates through the room. His body tightens, his voice raises after each repetition. An abrupt shot in the back (by his request) cuts him off. He falls. Upwards, he looks. His eyes close. _I will die serving my King. I will die serving my people. I will see you soon, Father, Mother. _The spears simultaneously pierce the guardian's body. The four survivors force their battered bodies to salute. Arthur's screams were the only sound in the room.

Kaldur'ahm did not break. His last words were a promise:

"The tide rises, briefly, before it_ falls_. The people of Atlantis will _never _accept you as their king."

He hailed to his King and Queen as the blades fell. A sincere apology played in the background of his words. _I have failed you. _Dull steel swung repeatedly at his neck; his executioner aimed for his gills. Eight swings. Eight more. Up, down, through. Ripped webbed membrane. Torn tissue. His uniform was indistinguishable from the rest of his mutilated body. The webs of his hands Arthur cursed at his uncle. Blood it made its way to where the wailing prince stood.

The blood covered Arthur as he was brought to the floor where his hero once stood, as if a ceremonial gown. Orin looked on. Helpless. Orm clapped a quick beat; the purists followed. It continued on for several long, agonizing minutes. The tune of birthdays. The prince looked up at the man he once called uncle. Freshly fourteen. Ocean-Master gave a mocking bow. _Happy birthday, Arthur._ The young boy screamed his old lullaby like a battle cry.

"The people they eye the castle, they listen for a voice, a soothing voice, a crown and his boy!"

He kept his eyes on the murderer. Spears dented his armour. A mace descended on his skull. Ten seconds. He squirmed. Four more, he blinked. Two more, and the room was as quiet as the rest of Poseidonis. Mera's anger and anguish was translated into one long, tainted cry. She finished his dying song.

The former queen help her head up high despite the neck injury she had sustained in the battle. She faced her King. They were two feet apart. Her voice betrayed nothing. She steeled herself.

"Death will not keep us apart for long, my love."

The knife found it's treasure. Blood filled her mouth. For the first time that night, the King shuddered. Her lips tugged upwards. A slight smile. _I see Arthur. _Assurance. Her eyes remained open. The light from them vanished, slowly. He struggled. She fell. Her hair shifted back and forth with the tide. A cracked crown clanged. He looked at his half-brother. Ferocity battled nothingness. Empty threats from living-dead king.

They dragged him to the terrace in the next room. Facing his city, painted in fins and gills and tails. He proclaims his last decree. Orm shouts in enmity, finally showing emotion. Piranhas. They slice through the once-king's suit. Orange, black, green, gold. Shredded garments dirty with blood. Flesh. A slow, resounding hum ring through the chamber when the royal's belt and braces fall. This was the purists' revenge.

Not lost are the words. They ring through the streets and towers, and linger in Orm's mind for years to come:

"Atlantis is no more, for all the Atlanteans are dead."


	3. Fallen Bird

Someone needed to distract the port guard for the rescue to work. The vote fell on their leader. Most capable. Most trained. The Dark Knight's greatest accomplishment.

Though, no one is trained for slaughter.

_"Are you sure-"_

"100%."

_"I don't see anyone here, Oracle."_

"Keep looking. I've got heat signatur-"

_"Agh!"_

"Nightwing?! Nightwing, come in!"

Choking. She could hear him gasping for air. Throwing punches. Harvey Dent gave a throaty laugh.

_"Where are your sidekicks, little bird?"_

_"I don't- have side- kicks-"_

_"What was that? I couldn't hear."_

A yell. Pushing. She heard the vague Click of his sheath; the eskrima sticks were out.

_"I don't have sidekicks. I have a Team."_

_"Rebels. Do you know what the charges of inciting a coup d'etat are?"_

_"Enlighten me."_

Another laugh. More sinister. More mocking. A coin being tossed. Slapped onto a hand. She hears Dick intake air, sharply.

_"Heads, you die. Tails, you live."_

From the skirmish that followed, Barbara assumed the former DA was satisfied with the results of the coin toss. Gut punches. Broken bones. _Ribs. _Loud snaps. _His jaw. _Howling. _Eyes. _Pops. _Shoulder._

_"C'mere!"_

_"Ugh!"_

_"You know what you're running? It's a French Uprising."_

_"..G- Ack!"_

_"You and I both know how that one ends."_

More fighting. The sticks fell heavily on a set of ribs. Crack. Crack. Crack. Then, a kick. From what she could gather, to,the stomach. A loud slam. The wall and the hero collided. Desensitized laughter. A click? _No._

She yelled a warning into the radio. She could tell. He was struggling to get up. Another laugh. Click. A three-second wind whisper. Collision. Pain. Footsteps, checking the body. Coughing; he was still alive. Sliding from the floor, upwards. Slamming his head into the wall.

The comm line crackled. _No, please no_. A steady, hopeful voice.

"...Dick?"

She could hear the broken hero on the other side. Hushed voices. Sounds of a struggle. Pushing. The heaving breaths you take when you're finally free. Deliberately, he spoke. He knew she would know it. They faced every hard time with it. Three years reinstating the conversation.

_"I-I promise you, if you accept, I will beg Bruce to cover the other one."_

Tears. A forced response. "How romantic."

A crack, a yell. Pain rung in her ears.

_"I- b-bought the h-house, Barb."_ The last word was a whisper. A secret.

Her hands restrained her voice. She closed her eyes. A sob. A response. "T-The one with the-"

He was getting up. She could hear the gravel move under his feet. A loud taunt. His foe spoke with split voices. She held back. He fell. A thud.

_"Yes."_ His voice faded. The short breaths diminished into nothingness. The killer's footsteps approached the earpiece. A thump, a smash. Static. Noise. White, black beads crunching her ear, resounding in her skull. She sat in silence, staring at the monitor. Red and orange and green and yellow in the form a man decreased in size. She shut off his communicator. Her pain escaped her eyes. Her throat. There was no one else in the room to see her break down. She freed herself from the lies of "I'm fine"s and "We'll get through"s. Nothing was worse than Gothamite losing hope, losing strive.

One last time, she finished the conversation.

_Why?_

That night, their son was the hardest to cry.


	4. Soldiers of the Sun

**A/N: Hey, hey! Guess who's back!**

* * *

Desperation. Silent decisions. Split second planning. She apologized in her heart. "Four." His face grew pale.

"No. No, please, don't do it."

"Four, Tye."

He pleaded. Desperation. "Sam, please don't do it."

She held back a sob. Choked back. Tears rushed down her face; she closed her eyes. She yelled. Coarse. Pained. "I'm going to do it with or without your help, Tye! _Please_!"

He screamed insults at no one in particular. Distressed. Struggling to get free. Fighting. He directed his eyes upward. The skylight was close enough. His soul suffered. _I can't. I can't. What if-? _He strained at the unseen force. Sam did the same. Their eyes locked. One. She was going to do it; her eyes carried more weight and regret than his. He made one final attempt to free himself. In contempt, he bellowed. His arms shook. Legs, buckled. Chest... contracted. _No more, no more. _

She could see him. Feuding with himself. Then, when his body hung limp in midair, fifty feet across from her own invisible prison, she began. _One._ Closed eyes and a low hum. The distinct start up of her inner engine. _Two._ Glowing from behind her eyes. Tye, a chasm away, yelling for her to stop. _Three. _A burst of energy. Dying levels of power leaving her body. Propelling her.

She kept her eyes shut.

_"If we're going to work together, we're going to need to have a collective and cohesive code system. That's why we're all here today; the Light may one day turn on each other, but for now, they're a unit. And to beat them, we have to be a unit, too."_

_A silver room. High ceilings. A crowd of heroes and vigilantes. Meta-gene enhanced teens and adults with somber faces and broken spirits. _This is what we need. Organization.

_After years working with the United Nations as a translator, she knew how well a system could chug out progress if led efficiently. She knew how the world worked. How to understand it. To give it a voice._

_"Guardian, the list." On one of the long walls, a beam of light shone to present the crowd with its assignments. Training and Maneuvers, Missions, Rescues, Sabotage, Intel. Names were listed under each, with instructors divvied up to account for each individual. _Longshadows - West, Grayson, Kent. (_Identification these days were based on names, not aliases. 'Flash' and 'Nightwing' were only used outside of the twin cities. Only in battle.)_

_"How come we have three instructors, Dick?" Her husband was beside her, speaking. Tall and sturdy. A warrior in attitude. A warrior in blood._

_"Because this move took the three of us to complete."_

_She looked at Tye. "And you think we'll be fine with just the two of us?"_

_A cheeky Romani smile replied,"With your powers? Definitely."_

Her wrists burned; it was working. Breaking through the magical chains Klarion had left them in. Tearing skin as chi forced her body in the direction of her choosing. Forward-aimed at Tye.

_"'Maneuver Four'? How does it work?" The three heroes looked at each other. Smiles. For the first time, Sam remembered the stories Jaime would tell at get-togethers. Team legacy stories, mostly. How Conner, Wally, Kaldur, and Nightwing (at the time, the Batfamily was still under contract-no names) started out. How Wally and Nightwing pulled pranks, how Conner had rage issues, or how Kaldur was the 'big brother'-the leader._ _When they hadn't yet experience the invasion. Before Wally went missing for 1 1/3 years. Before Conner started leading alongside Kaldur and Barbara. Before Dick took a break. Before Vandal had the WarWorld under his thumb. Before all sense became a lack thereof, and all light became darkness, and the night sky was more welcome than the rising sun._

_Before today. _Tye looked up. Regret. Some sort of silent resignation. A level of self-pity. Then he too, glowed.

_"In our version, I'd be on Wally's back and he'd propel me over to Conner, who would catch me and continue the momentum by spinning, then launching me over to whatever direction I need to be at." At this, Tye and Sam turned to each other, sharing one of their signature confused looks. Dick rubbed the back of his neck. "Uhm... we'll show you."_

_It was simple- like a humanized slingshot. Wally was the pull-back: he'd run at top speed for about fifteen meters, then stop abruptly (over the years, he had finally mastered to art of stopping on cue; his uncle would be proud). Dick, the acrobat that he was, would be launched over to a waiting Kon. The younger Kryptonian would catch him, mid-spin, and throw him across the room to an unprepared dummy. Easy. Clear._

_"I'll be you and Wally, and Tye's Conner?"_

_A rare, toothy grin. "Exactly."_

_"My astral form can't really _spin_."_

_The new Flash replied. Sam swore she saw him adjust the still-too-big suit; the events of the past few weeks left little time to adjust costumes. "This is where your powers come in. Sam, you can move in arcs now, right?"_

_A nod. Stop. Scrunched eyebrows. Stop. Wide eyes. Across her, a cheeky smile. On her face, an incredulous expression. Implicatons._

_"How-"_

_"Ever been on a rollercoaster?"_

Sam opened her eyes enough to see her husband's astral form grow- carefully, so as not to fall into the chasm of acid below- and aimed herself at his astral form's upward-tilted palm.

_"They got it down fast. And _I'm _saying that." Wally's pun-based humor fell on semi-deaf ears. The Flash waves his hand in front of Nightwing. "Yo, Dick?"_

_Silence._

_"Did you tell them?"_

_Squinting eyes reply. Flaming hair shakes._

_"You have to tell them."_

_A sigh. A frown. A nod._

_"I can go with you if you want-"_

_"No."_

_A black glove pinches the bridge of his nose._

_"I have to do this myself."_

She curved her body. _Arcs._ She could see Tye struggling to keep his position- worn. Bruised. _I'm sorry. _She said it to everyone.

_They were performing the task almost flawlessly by the tenth go, so it was no surprise when the moment Sam saw Nightwing approaching them, she knew. "There's a catch."_

_The leader had been smiling and laughing moments before, but now... he was grim. Sagging shoulders carried a black message, as if he had been up the past week calculating and re-calculating the maneuver, to check, to make sure, to provide alternatives. Because he hadn't, despite his genius, despite the prodigious talents of those around him, his squad, his wife, his team, been able to find any other safely-designed move for the couple. This specific stunt, for them, had ramifications._

_"This isn't something... you'll want to use all the time." Slow. Deliberate._

Upward she went; the ceiling blasted into debris, and the Witch Boy fell to the ground. She freed the remainder of her squad quickly, disregarding the pain that came with the collision.

_"I thought the whole point of this was so we _could_ use it all the time?" A deep voice. Tye sounded suspicious. Like he was 16 years old and Lex Luthor had offered him free rein._

_"Mostly, yes, you could use it. But certain times... Well."_

_"When?" Sam. Straight to the point, as usual._

_He listed. "Not in a crowded area. Not in a sealed cavern of some sort. And not when you're pregnant."_

She was bleeding. Profusely._ Coughing._

* * *

_"Theta, ETA two minutes."_

_Blood. _

"Is Ed with you?"

_Panic._

_"Yes. Is anyone hurt?"_

_Distraught._

"Sam. Sam's hurt."

_Tye, it hurts._

_"I'll send him with Zatanna."_

_Comforting._

"It's not magic."

_Static. _

_"Tye, did she- was she-"_

_Crying._

"Wally, she- she had to- Just send Ed, just send him now. Please."

_Augh... Tye..._

_"Teleporting now. Theta, over."_

Two names etched on a concrete tablet.

Two heroes that would-have-been.

"I'm sorry."

She caught her breath. He kept her standing.

* * *

"I'm so _sorry._"

_Sorry._

_I'm sorry._

_I love you._

_Both of you._


	5. Instinct

The days following the surface rescues and ocean invasions were the worst. Four days after Atlantis was broken and spilled, the preserved bodies of the guardians were placed in the surrounding ares of Keystone and Central. The smell of decaying bodies wafted through the outskirts of the rebel cities. Daily. The sight brought terror and doubt to the trainees and survivors. By the city gates, Orm and Black Manta had placed the Royal Family, as well as their personal security.

Kaldur'ahm's father smiled with contempt as he hoisted his son's body to the top of the pole; seen by all, feared by all. His head was placed separately, beside him. Dick and Wally had seen it the first day, vowing to recover his broken pieces and to give him a proper burial.

(Two days later, Wally was running cross country retrieving a different corpse. One battered and bruised. Three bullet holes. Fractured ribs. Dislocated joints. Multiple. Worse was Bruce's expression when he realized the younger man's back had been broken. Explicit overkill. Threats and warnings. )

La'gaan's remains were placed closer to the city than the others. They didn't bother removing the weapons that killed him. A spear protruding his skull. Another, his chest. A third, his stomach. His back: burned. Open, unresponsive eyes.

Conner and M'gann were out that day; their mentors (in this state of disarray, partners) were leading a new Theta Squad into a decisive battle, and they were needed. Barbara didn't have the heart to tell them until they returned. M'gann would never receive the news.

The rookies wore long, tainted faces upon re-entering the base. Her charred remains were in a long box; two invincible men cursing their 'if-then' mortality. Conner would see the bodies after stumbling outside in a fit of distress. _Not my fault, they said. They weren't wouldn't know._

The outwardly unaging man had looked up at the stars that night.

"I tried! I tried, and I couldn't do it! I couldn't save her! _I _let her die!"

The shimmering lights scoffed. There was no beauty tonight. No love. No reason. There, the odor reached him. He turned. The bodies of his teammates stared back at him. Disfigured. Contorted. The most disturbing feature, however, was the silence. It haunted him.

Death and Decay covered him. Broke his soul. Taunted at his 'hope'. He couldn't stop staring. His former fearless leader's blood had dried on various levels of the pole. The severed body leaned forward, showing the jagged cut; Conner realized they were from multiple blows. He had seen enough executions by Deathstroke to know.

He yelled; he cried. This had been the first outsider to treat him like a human being. Saved him from his pod. Taught him. Fought beside him. Now, he was a mesh of disfigured puzzle pieces, hastily put together with black and red glue. Superboy fell. To his left, he could see a closer carcass. La'gaan.

_"Hey. I love you." _

His feet dug into the ground; sinking. Plowing the field of death.

_"I know. But stop making sound like it's the last time. I'll be back in a few days, you know."_

Eyes stung. "You lied."

_"Yeah, I just..."_

He remembered his nervousness. He was never nervous for the well-being of Atlantean to that extent; the city was well fortified. Strong. Just like _him_.

_"Kon, I'll be fine."_

Voice quaked with pain."You knew."

_His insticts raised red flags; something would go wrong. Something unexpected. _

Evolving into anger. "You _knew._"

_The green-skinned soldier turned toward the door. "Be safe, Superfish."_

Pure, uncontested rage. "YOU _KNEW!"_

_Smirking. He was _smirking._ Conner could hear it in his voice. Like he sensed it too. _

Dust flew in all directions; Kon-El slammed at the earth. Once. Twice.

_The clone brushed it off._

Wild thrashing. Self-loathing. "Why did I let you leave?"

_"You too, 'Gaan."_

His body grew weak. "Why?!"

_The door closed. _

Behind him, two rows of ploughed ground. Ahead, the wooden pike decorated with green skin and black hair. A gross, detestable sight. Superboy lurched forward, crawling like a child. He needed to take it down. He needed to bring him home. To bury him.

He moved forward. _So tired._ Slowly. Slower. Still. He dropped repeatedly. Struggling to keep himself lifted. Struggling from the fatigue. _No._ The pain.

So.

Much.

_Pain. _

He couldn't scream. No sound except the distant grieving from the city. Behind closed eyes, he recognizes the glow. An evil green. He could barely move, now. Pulling his weight by his arms. Then, his fingers. An inch later, he lay almost paralyzed, his head fallen to the side. His last ounce of strength was used to stare at _him._

(Tomorrow, they tell him they can't recover the bodies. He had, apparently, almost crossed the border to a large arsenal of deathtraps. Milagro and Guy had found him; he was around the kryptonite for eleven minutes. Five more and he would have been unsalvageable.)


End file.
